


Three Loaves

by SquirrelandBlackbird



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8767474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquirrelandBlackbird/pseuds/SquirrelandBlackbird
Summary: Peeta prepares the day's bread while trying to forget his own role in the arena. Katniss is also close in his thoughts as he prepares her three loaves.





	

Baking bread. There was a rhythm to his work. Its perfection brought peace; despite the arena, and other challenges.

  
Peeta knew he his fate should have been in the arena sky announcing the other dead tributes. He knew he would not return. But things had not worked out as he had planned. Nobody saw it coming.   

Forcing down what could have been, he positioned white plastic bins next to the large vat of dough. He plunged his hands into the dough and pinched it, forming a large two handed chunk. He lifted this out and tossed into an empty bin, giving the dough three quick folds. 

  
He repeated this process until the vat stood empty. A stack of bins stood neatly close to hand. 

He imagined pinching Cato’s neck like he pinched the dough. But Cato had been a career from District 2. What could he do against career? Or any of them? 

  
He chose to be a mutt in their pack, somebody beholden to them to stay alive. A baker’s son in the Hunger Games. The thought of it now gave him a bad taste in his mouth. He fought down the self-loathing.

He pulled out the first long metal tray from the rack. Each tray had a heavy white cloth on it. He unfolded the excess fabric away from him and tossed flour across its large surface.

On the floor next to him stood the white bins. He lifted the first bin and flipped out the dough onto the metal counter. A large scale stood nearby. With a quickness born from hours and hours of practice, he chopped off a hunk of dough. Measured it, slicing off the excess or adding to it. Then he tossed it onto the bench. 

His biggest fear had been coming across Katniss disoriented from the tracker jackers. Cato would be there any minute. She had to get out of there. 

He may be only a baker’s son, but Cato wasn’t going to kill a member from District 12. Especially, Katniss, who had volunteered for her sister, Prim. She deserved to win, or at least not be a victim to Cato.

He grabbed some dough and dropped it in front of him. He turned the ends to the middle. Flipped over the top. Rolled it back and forth twice. Lifted it over the tray. Dropped it onto the thick cloth. Pinching the cloth together before adding another loaf. 

He repeated this over and over until he had 24 loaves on the tray. Once he loaded a full sheet, he slid into the trolley, working from the top down.

As a baker, consistency mattered. It wasn’t difficult work. But it required repetition. Loaf by loaf, kneading and shaping. 

Consistent kneading. 

He smiled to himself. She had begun to respond, and then they returned home to District 12. It was obvious she fancied Gale, and he envied their trips to the woods. But he had been born a baker’s son. And a baker’s son he would be.

He limped over to the next filled bin, and rolled it over to the bench. He pulled out another empty sheet tray. 

Little acts. 

Like handling dough; firm but gentle.

He didn’t know what it was about dandelions, but he knew they meant a lot to Katniss. He left her a basket full, and headed to the bakery. When he returned from work, the basket was gone.

The knife sliced easily into the top of the loaves. These cuts would open in the baking process. 

He gave the loaves meant for Katniss three quick slashes each. It wasn’t much, but it’s was he could do.

In the end, she had saved him. Again, he remembered how useless he had been in the whole thing. He would have eaten the berries with her. If it meant being with her forever. 

He began rolling baguettes. She filled his thoughts. This was why he baked. It kneaded away the games, and he could picture her face in the flour. He felt her in the dough. His mouth longed to kiss her, but she was with Gale. 

He tried ignoring the tight knot this made in his gut. They were friends. Just like he was friends with her. 

Friends. 

They were a couple for the Capital. It was all an act, and he could play the game. But he could tell it wasn’t easy for her. 

Life and death drew people closer together more than marriage or even being family. Haymitch had referred to this bond while drunk one night. Nobody understood this except other Victors. Death drew them together, a select oppressed group with Capital fur lining. 

The Games did things to people. Haymitch drank. He chose to bake. The repetition calmed his nerves, and the smell of baking bread always filled him with peace. 

It was Katniss who didn't adjust well. But who could blame her. She was still the scared wet girl he helped so long ago. Her eyes had captured him. A mix between fear and fight. 

He started the small loaves, rolling two at a time. In a way Katniss was like the topping he dipped the loaves into before placing them on the tray. She had a way of remaining only on the surface. A thick hard crust. But he knew there was a soft delicious center. 

Helplessness brought it out in her. That’s why she volunteered for Prim, and saved his life by putting on the tourniquet. 

She may put on a tough exterior, but he ignored it. It was all show like their relationship. What the cameras saw was what they wanted the cameras to see. 

He finished the last tray. Flour covered the bench and the floor. He pushed the bin over next to the sink and began cleaning them. Like making the loaves, there was a rhythm. 

Katniss required a similar rhythm. She responded to gentleness. Nothing flashy. A loaf of bread. Some flowers. His presence. 

Prim helped. They had talked, and she told him he was good for Katniss, just like Gale was good for Katniss, too. He wondered if Prim had been kidding him? He knew Gale wanted Katniss. He wasn't sure if Katniss knew it.  

Gale wanted more, but Katniss had kept it at bay. Maybe she would not accept anyone.

Peeta didn’t like this idea, as he swept the floor. The heat had risen in the bakery as the ovens came to temperature. 

He pulled open the oven and slid the first tray of bread into the oven, and followed it by a second tray beside it.  


The mixer and bins needed cleaning, and he tended to those. The smell of delicious bread filled the bakery. He slipped the sheet paddle in the oven and began removing the loaves, and stacking them on wire racks. 

The mine whistle blew. Peeta knew the men would be passing by, and many would pick up a loaf on the way home. Or their wives would come in to get their daily loaf.

Three loaves were set off to one side, so they would not be mistaken for the other loaves. 

A bell rang. Mrs. Mellark’s voice cut through the wall, and Peeta filed it to the back of his mind. He rolled the cooling rack over to the door and behind the counter. 

People began filing in, and Mrs. Mellark waited on them. 

He hurried to get another trolley, and filled the empty shelves. 

The walk to Victor’s village helped to loosen his muscles from the work. He carried the three loaves in a woven bag to keep them fresh. District 12 had begun to rise. 

Haymitch would still be asleep for another four or five hours. Katniss should be returning soon from her trip to the meadow. 

He arrived just in time. Katniss pulled up when she saw him. She looked toward the bag slung over his shoulder, and then down to his leg. 

He limped slightly, not because he needed to. The prosthetic worked fine. It was just a leg after all. But the pout on her face made it worth it every day. He knew he shouldn’t do it but couldn’t resist seeing the concern in her yes. It was like being in the Games, and their time alone. 

“You know when to show up,” she said. He could hear her stomach grumble. 

“It’s the least I could do,” he said, trying not to overdo it. 

The Hunger Games taught him what real fear was. But it was never like the fear he now felt as he handed Katniss the sack. 

He just wanted to kiss her lips.

  


  



End file.
